


seulement toi (dans mon cœur)

by sunsongs



Series: fields of gold [2]
Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Gen, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-21 13:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsongs/pseuds/sunsongs
Summary: Listen. I have always wanted to be your forever. I want to share eternity by your side.If Foie falls, Hotdog will catch her. This is how it has always been, whether in the vivid, rapid-fire movements of a tango, all swift movements and sharpness, or in the fluid steps of a gentle waltz.
Relationships: Escargot & Foie Gras (Food Fantasy), Foie Gras & Escargot & Hot Dog (Food Fantasy), Hotdog & Foie Gras (Food Fantasy), Hotdog/Foie Gras (Food Fantasy)
Series: fields of gold [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535930
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	seulement toi (dans mon cœur)

**I.**

_ Un, deux, trois. Il y a seulement toi, et seulement moi. _

One, two, three. There is only you, and only me. 

There may be thousands of people here, but you — you are all I see. It is no ballroom, truth be told. There’s no vaulted ceiling, no crystal chandelier — all I need is the warmth of your hand in mine. The click of your heels against the marble floor. Your grin as I twirl you round and round, sputtering through mirth as you tell me to stop. 

There’s no music but the ringing of your laughter, bright as the wedding bells I’ve always dreamed of hearing by your side. One day. Some day. Will I ever have the courage to offer you my vow?

**II.**

If Foie falls, Hotdog will catch her. This is how it has always been, whether in the vivid, rapid-fire movements of a tango, all swift movements and sharpness, or in the fluid steps of a gentle waltz. 

Then again, Foie is usually the one who does the catching. She's the responsible one, after all — never mind the fact that she takes to the skies like a swordfish slicing through the sea, cutting through through crisp morning air with a fiendish grin overhead. Hotdog loves to watch her, artistry in motion; Foie unfurling her wings means her typically stifled laughter bursts through the air like shining stars. 

Something would catch in Hotdog’s throat, then, and she could not explain why. Foie’s smiles shone so brightly. That wondrous, endlessly endearing expression made an ineffable sensation well up in her: similar in intensity to euphoria, sunny and aglow with affection. It was something like indescribable joy — nearly palpable in its abundance. Whenever Foie laughed, it was contagious. It was one fever Hotdog welcomed with open arms, warmth simmering flush on her skin. 

Sometimes she takes Hotdog along for a flight, and the sight of the city lights — jewels embedded in velvet rivers, winding through through Parisel with their diamond-cut gleam — steal her breath away. Ah, but that spectacular sight is not the only thing that leaves Hotdog breathless — the culprit is the moon-bright radiance of Foie’s feathery, lightning-kissed strands. Coupled with the flush in her cheeks and her hair tossed into indelicate disarray by the wind, it only adds to her charm.

Hotdog will “accidentally” neglect to mention that fact to Foie, ever-concerned with appearances and constantly aiming for no less than perfection. She worries too much, yet she’s no less beautiful for her imperfections. _ There’s no shame in being yourself, _ Hotdog once told her with a soft smile. _ Embrace it. Don’t let anyone stifle who you truly are _ , _ darling. _

…then again, Hotdog might worry too little. The not-so-subtle acrylic paint stains from several months ago still cling to the fabric of her favorite sweater, even when she’d rolled up the sleeves. Pity.)

“La vue… c’est brillant, n’est-ce pas? Mais tu es plus belle. Tu — tu es l’étoile plus brillante dans le soleil du noir.” _ The view… it’s brilliant, isn’t it? But you’re more beautiful. You — you’re the most brilliant star in the night sky. _

“O-oh! Mon bijou, tu…tu me flattes trop.” _ O-oh! My dear, you… you flatter me too much. _

“Non, non! C’est vrai!” _ No, no! It’s true! _

**III.**

Though eating is not a necessity for their kind, there is only pleasure to be gained from fruit caramelized in butter and sugar in the form of a classic tart. The sweetness always melts on her tongue, buttery crust the perfect complement. Hotdog can’t wait for a taste.

Foie, on the other hand, has the patience of the saints Hotdog’s only heard of in stories. Foie always looked like she had sprung straight from a fairytale — far too fantastical to exist in the mundane realm. Hotdog wondered if this how most people saw them: ageless and ethereal, and all the more inhuman for it.

(She saw their server drift out with their order, scales glittering on her skin. She floated out to them, her luminous fish tail creating a draft with its pendulous movement. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Customer service was insufferable as it was. Being a food soul, on the other hand, made the occupation even more of a pain. Some customers flinched as food soul servers held out their receipt, with claws in lieu of nails. Particularly rude ones asked for why their Master Attendant kept them on such a loose leash. 

It’s why Hotdog leaves a larger tip than usual. When the server notices this as they leave, her curved fangs do little to lessen the radiance of her delighted grin.)

Foie’s the one who waits for their favorite local patisserie’s tarte tatin to cool before sampling a slice, the one who doesn’t take bites of a popsicle heedless of the chill that “makes my teeth ache just from watching.”

On cue, Hotdog takes another frigid bite of the frozen treat in playful jest. Foie sighs and folds her hands on her lap, but the creases in her brow smooth, calling to mind the artistry of origami. Prim and straight-backed, her bones the rigid folds of a paper crane. 

Turns away, as if to pretend they are mere strangers. Hides her laughing eyes and the curl of her lips she can’t quite conceal, reminiscent of dog-eared pages.

The well-worn novels she read in captivity had their own charm, after all, for the inane ramblings she found in the margins. She brushed the dust from their weathered spines, worn from age. For the span of several hours, she could escape the confines of the castle and take comfort in the worlds they encompassed, brought to life by whimsical, well-crafted words.

They made her laughter echo throughout her gilded cage. (Empty. So empty.)

It made her feel suddenly and terribly aware of her loneliness, that sound. It was a reminder that she would have to take the cruel cards Fate given her and deal a deck of her own. 

She was thrilled, then, that Escargot was to visit that afternoon, and would regale her with the sights of glorious day. These fortunate tidings were from a sympathetic servant who occasionally paid her chambers a visit. 

The news greatly revitalized her spirit, excessively so. She had to resist the urge to pirouette on spot. Then again, the cold chains clasped around her ankles would have stopped her mid-spin.

(They were crafted from a most peculiar metal. Originally, it was created to keep Fallen in captivity by negating their soul power; it was in popular use by Nevras researchers to allow for closer study of their specimens. 

When the public found it was only for their use, righteous indignation lit the fires of rebellion. Protestors could be seen daily, crowding around Guild locations all over Tierra. Headlines dragged Nevras’s already duplicitous reputation through the mud. Testimonies moved some readers to tears, as many could relate to having experienced the terror of a Fallen attack. 

“... Gloriville Times up in arms with Nevras scandal…” “Light Kingdom to cease negotiations with Nevras, soon to enforce sanctions…” “Nevras government declines to confirm the existence of ‘miracle ore’...” “Nevras laboratories are once again under scrutiny… history is destined to repeat...” 

“Makes ya wonder what goes on behind the scenes in those labs, don’t’cha think?” “That kind of thinking’ll land you as another of their test subjects.” “Hey!” 

Nevras stocks were dropping to a critical low. Nations placed sanctions on the country, until at last Nevras’s Council gave in. Afterwards, though, Nevras’s government tried to gloss over its scandals, as always.

Once it became available for public use, it was an instant hit throughout Tierra. Even though only worked to subdue weaker Fallen, it helped reduce casualties by a substantial amount. 

Aristocracy, wanting to save their own skins, ordered the manufacture of chains and cages for fear of a devastating attack. Noblesse oblige (although perhaps a scant few were compelled out of genuine concern) demanded they provide villagers with a substantial portion to hold out until reinforcements arrived. 

Local Master Attendants’ first priority was always to protect civilians, even at the cost of their lives. With the formation of their contracts, they made this solemn oath.

Imagine their surprise when the same metal worked on food souls. They shouldn’t have been. Where did they think Fallen came from?)

**IV.**

How Foie has loved those weathered tomes, a welcome reprieve from the monotony of stagnating in a silent cell; solitude only provided endless fuel for soul-crushing boredom and spiraling thoughts. Escargot’s visits, too, were another light in the endless shadowed halls of her memory.

Comme c’est gentil à vous! Monsieur Tournesol, je suis folle de joie pour le bonheur vous me donnez! _ How kind of you! Mister Sunflower, I’m overjoyed for the happiness you give me! _

One of these days, she would have to pay another visit to that charming café. 

(Nestled somewhere in the lush forests of Gloriville, Escargot is curled up like a kitten in the corner of a cozy café, soaking up the sunlit warmth that spills through the kitchen windows. 

He sneezes suddenly, startling himself out of his afternoon nap. He rubs at his eyes in groggy annoyance, wondering for a moment if his good friend had been calling his name.) 

**V.**

Foie is accustomed to waiting. What is the annoyance of several minutes for one who has suffered the suffocating shackles of solitude for endless years? The thought of it makes a rush of electric anger crackle through Hotdog’s veins, for her. Foie deserved better: enough space to stretch her wings, the freedom to tear through the skies at terminal velocity, whirling with effortless grace.

So if Hotdog spoils her girlfriend a little (read: a lot), all she’ll say is that Foie deserves the world — all that and more. Hotdog would snatch the stars from the covetous sky for her, even if they seared her palms with their white-hot heat. Lay them at her feet with a contented smile, pencil poised in hand.

“You’re a masterpiece, _ mon cygnet. _” Hotdog would murmur, only loud enough for Foie to hear. Foie would rest her head on Hotdog’s shoulder. Close her eyes against that wondrous light, scattered across her palms like fairy dust. Bitter ashes of a dying stars. The gentle heat of those still living, still burning.

Imagines kissing the freckles scattered across Hotdog’s face, one by one. Her face, lighting up in bright, flushed incandescence. Her guiding star. 

“Do I qualify to be placed in a museum?” Foie doesn’t voice any of her idle dreams. Not yet. They’re too fragile, brittle like heartbreak. For all her courage in flight, she’s always been afraid of falling. 

(It’s a good thing they have all the time in the world, then. It _ doesn’t _, however, mean she has eons to lose before she makes her move.)

Ah, yes. She’s familiar with being a _ thing _ to gawk at, after all, an exotic bird on display. Feeling the burn of a thousand eyes sear into her back, judgment delivered in gawks and gasps.

Foie liked it best when they were afraid. It seemed like so few remembered her power; food souls had been brought into this world for a reason, after all. It would do them well to _ remember _ their place.

“I think I’d rather keep you to myself, if you don’t mind.” Hotdog’s voice is quiet, drawing Foie out of her ire. Foie’s temper cools with a mischievous breath, whispered into her ear before vanishing altogether.

“No.” Foie’s shoulders were tense. Now, they shake from silent mirth, laughter flowing from her lips: sweet as the pastries Hotdog has always loved. “Not at all.”

**VI.**

Night has always been the time for secrets to unfold throughout the city like so much smoke. 

Fallen attacks have been at an all-time low, so you can roam the streets at night without interruption. Curfew has been extended to a few hours later than usual, so the shops still glitter, decorated with festive lights and candy-colored ornaments.

You chalk it up to the appearance of the rumored Phoenix, whose moniker can be found in nearly every headline in the country. They say (judging by his attire) he’s a Light Kingdom native, on the warpath to bring down the innumerable cults throughout Tierra down. You’re not sure what would’ve brought him _ here _, of all places. 

“Perhaps he needs a change of attire. Could it be singed sleeves?” You suggest, fingers curling around hers in the cold. Sure, it’s wild speculation, but it’s not any better than the nonsense in the headlines, anyway.

“Parisel _ is _ the fashion capital of Gloriville, after all… but why come all the way _ here _?” Foie indulges you. She had never been much of a gossip, but she had to have some way to entertain herself in captivity. She would never be proud of eavesdropping, but entertainment had been scarce otherwise. Books just weren’t the same. Listening to company that could converse, on the other hand, was different.

“A gift for a lover, perhaps?” Never let it be said that Parisel wasn’t a city of hopeless romantics, you being one of them.

“Never would have thought _ him _ a romantic…” 

A pause. A moment’s distraction, before Hotdog’s attention is drawn from the subject altogether. Her eyes are drawn towards her favorite store (second only to the patisserie) — the art store, faux flowers and easels pristine behind the display window. Beckoning.

The siren song of art supplies on sale has always kept you in their thrall, which has always been foreboding for Foie’s wallet. Foie has always been weak for your fluttering lashes and that puppy-like pout. 

“... Oh look, these paints I’ve been keeping my eye on are finally on sale…”

“If you are trying to attempt subtlety for once, dear…”

“What do you mean, ‘for once’?!”

“Exactly what I said.” 

**VII.**

The first time you met Foie, your eyes had been drawn to her: entranced by her liquid grace and sculpted muscles, gliding with a dancer’s physique. Her quiet strength, her unbending will. You felt a kinship with that ironclad obstinacy. 

(You had always craved freedom from your captors, gritting your teeth with every brushstroke. You scowled as you painted the innumerable jewels at the tittering nobles’ throats; you had been forced into compliance under the princess’s royal mandate. You dared not mar their sneering faces with a single brushstroke out of place, not when your friends’ homes were at stake.

You wanted to set that canvas aflame. The only person the princess was fooling was herself. Even as her hair greyed with age, she wanted her paintings to showcase the elegance she had in her youth.

You scoffed to yourself. Superficial beauty was like seeds sown in shallow soil, never breaking the surface — so easily swept away by the sands of time. Your eye was more drawn to quiet kindness, like how Foie always chose the withering trees for their garden, unfailingly restoring them to glowing health. The way she fed the strays with the pocket change from their last mission as mercenaries, even if she only had several coins to spare. 

You didn’t have to eat, but the strays would starve without sustenance. You always pitched in your meager sum. Temporary contracts often offered a good deal of gold, but they were few and far between. Most Master Attendants didn’t trust a food soul that wasn’t bound to a master with magic, unwilling to trust by word alone — and rightfully so.

You and Foie would be just fine, living contract to contract and unfettered by mortal pains.

You can’t bear the stifling weight of invisible chains. It’s suffocating, that feeling. Now that you know freedom once more, you never want to be subjected to them again.

**VIII.**

The price of a permanent contract just wasn’t worth the cost.

Plenty of humans would gladly seek profit from a pint of your blood, a pinch of your essence for just a taste of immortality. Soon they’ll be clamoring for another and another, until you’re drained dry as Palata’s rivers in the height of summer. (Try to go for a dip, and all it’ll land you is a soak in sawdust.)

Nobody knows the effects of imbuing a food soul’s blood with a human’s.

Perhaps it’s because so few have lived to tell the tale -- aside from cultists, who have always kept their secrets. Sacrifices hardly speak once they’re silenced, after all.

(They say there’s a sigil circulating around the Night Market, calling a wealthy, well-dressed investor who keeps coming back for more its master. They call him the Doctor. He’s one of the few who know the underground network of sunless cities like the back of his hand.

Rumor has it that there’s labyrinthine tunnels in the depths that connect to the Catacombs. Search hard enough, and you’ll find collapsed passages used during the war, age-old and untouched. Bioluminescent mushrooms that no longer boast Light Kingdom’s brilliant red line the passageways in fluorescent blue, painting the darkness with their enchanting light. Beware of that beauty, here. Be wary of the spell their color casts: parasitic Fallen have been known to spread through their spores.

Don’t bother looking for him, that Doctor. He has his ways of knowing where his client will appear. There's a reason the capital’s residents only speak of him in whispers; his hired eyes and ears are always watching throughout Insomnia, always listening: spies stationed behind the apothecary counter as clerks, or moonlighting as the sharp-eyed night guards patrolling the streets. A local’s advice: take care not to gossip around cloaked customer in the corner of the Sickle Moon pub.

You wouldn’t believe how many spiders he has set to weaving his web: beckoning flies into his parlor, morbidly amused by taunting hapless prey.

They say you’ll know him by his pocket watch he’ll take out from time to time, as if to remind his client that his was not to be wasted. Emblazoned with an emblem of a sinister snake, hollow fangs bared to sink deep into gilded scales.

He’ll always look in your eyes, as if searching for something. Ask if you know that fairy tale about that high tower and the girl who didn’t mind the taste of a lie. A kingdom full of flowers that left a (sometimes he'll even say _ his_) precious rose to die. 

He’ll say that story hasn’t ended yet. He'll say he'll take hold of the narrative with his own hands, if he must. 

The seeds have been sown. All he has to do is wait for them to bloom. 

**IX.**

Here is the unspoken vow between the two of us, reforged from cruel shackles of iron and made ours: never again. If I can help it, I’ll help you mend the wretched wound of clipped wings. We’ll climb the cathedral steps one by one, see an entire world tick on like clockwork in the mockery of gods below. Seize the city by its heart, listening to its steady pulse. Above, we can behold Her silent coronation, watching the Moon ascend to the imperial height of Her majesty. 

If you like, we could drift along the river — I’ll take the oars, this time; I’m not in the mood for swimming in the Seine tonight — watching the ebb and flow of city lights along the shore, shimmering reflections on amorphous ink. You wonder what we could have been_ : what if I were the artist and you, the dancer? _

(Don’t know what you were thinking that night. For all my elegance, I had two left feet. The pinnacle of your art career was a lopsided stick figure.)

I’ll remind you what flying feels like. Take your hand as the Moon’s empire swiftly meets its inevitable end, close my eyes and feel the Sun shatter the shadows of evening. I’ll stay by your side on another sleepless night, until light breaks through the curtains with something like a sigh. 

Stumble over to the thermostat half-awake when I see you shivering in your sleep, take your hand and remind you what warmth feels like. Press a kiss to your forehead, impossibly tender. A murmur in your ear: _ here_, _ you’ll always have somewhere to belong. A safe place to fall. _

I pray someday you hear me and echo my vow, half-delighted and half-whispered in reverence. I pray you don’t, because I am afraid I will only be greeted with a great and terrible silence. All I want — all I’ve ever wanted is —

_ I have always wanted to be your forever. I want to share eternity by your side. _

**X.**

"It is so easy to fall in love with beauty,” you mused, more to yourself than anything.

(How easy it is to fall in love with the sweet scent of perennial flowers; how easy it is to be entranced by their many colors. You keep coming back, drawn by their delicate perfume. Intoxicated by their near-imperial elegance, stuttering at the sight as if besotted with one toast too many of champagne. 

But it’s not liquor, you learn. It’s love. 

It’s not long before you find it harder and harder to leave.)

Then, quieter, you whispered, "Too easy to fall for you."

Had she heard that quiet dream, blooming fearfully in the dead of night? Night was the only time Foie could escape from her chambers without fear of royal reprimand. The gardens were beautiful in the evening; the lamps still burned gold along the stone paths, the moon was sewn high in the sky’s black silks. 

(Maybe you’re both afraid of saying the words. You wonder if Foie feels the same.)

It’s not the same garden tonight. You hadn’t wanted to remind Foie of her captivity, but she’d insisted on coming here. If she was fine with it… you wanted to forge new memories from the old. Better ones. Brighter ones, even if she could never forget that endless black.  
  
"The most beautiful rose in this garden, n'est-ce pas?" You giggle, pressing a kiss to Foie’s delicate hand, her nose, her cheeks. It’s better this way, to skip the awkwardness and the ceremony, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. You always hesitate, of course, moments before — when you lean close, you wait for her to nod in assent, a smile that says yes, darling, yes.

“Oh, hush, you.” Foie seems galvanized by your courage. She huffs, turning away for a moment before kissing you on both cheeks, almost as if in greeting. With every freckle she kisses you grow redder and redder, and Foie can’t contain her mirth. (And she calls _ you _ the shameless one.) 

“You’re getting bolder every day.” A sly smirk, fox-like. 

“Must be your audacity. You are a bad influence, you know.” A wry grin, amused.

You offer your hand, then, and for a moment you can forget your fear. Ask for a dance without words in the secret language you share. Fall in love again with that wry curl of her lips, sending her a coquettish wink. Waggle your eyebrows when Foie refuses to reciprocate, even when you tell her she’s no fun at all. _ Lighten up, won’t you? For me? Come on…just this once. _

Foie takes your hand, and you take the first steps slow. _ Little leaps, mon cygnet _ , you told her once, _ we’ll get there. _

You encourage that spark of daring, once stamped out and smothered under an unrelenting heel and fan the flames. To an extent, of course — too much, and you could just as easily return to the ashes of summoning fires, your memories of that gold hazy and indistinct. 

It’s never been clearer to you now. Here, where dreams and roses bloom alike, you say the words.

You don’t close your eyes. You want to watch that smile unfold, a thousand paper cranes unfurling their wings in flight. A wish, carried on a whisper: coming true. Coming home. 


End file.
